Page 113 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

This isn’t part of our agreement. This isn’t what we signed up for. This kind of... intimacy. It’s dangerous territory.

Four days. Four fucking days until our agreement ends and we go our separate ways. This is no time to complicate things by developing feelings. Especially not the kind that make my chest tighten when I remember how she looked at me, concern written all over her face.

By the time I’ve showered and dressed, I’ve made up my mind. I need distance. Space to regain control of this situation and my emotions. The resort project provides the perfect excuse.

I find Tatiana in the kitchen, already dressed for work in one of those sleek pantsuits that hug her curves in all the right places. She looks so fucking hot, but...

She’s sipping coffee, scrolling through something on her tablet, and looks up when I enter.

“Morning,” she says, with a small smile that makes something twist painfully in my chest. “You look better.”

“I’m fine,” I reply curtly, reaching for the coffee pot. “The fever broke overnight.”

“Good. I was worried it might—”

“I said I’m fine.” My tone is sharper than I intended. I see her eyes widen in surprise, that smile faltering. She suddenly blinks several times in a row and quickly looks away.

Good. Better she’s confused than getting too comfortable with this arrangement. And better she’s hurt now, rather than later.

“I’ve been reviewing your modifications to the resort solar panel installation schedule,” I say, deliberately shifting to business mode. “It’s unnecessarily complex.”

She spins toward me, and for a moment anger dominates her features. But then it’s masked in an instant. “Complex? It improves efficiency by twenty percent while reducing labor costs.”

“It also creates logistical problems with the foundation work.” I take a sip of coffee, avoiding her gaze. “It needs to be completely reworked.”

“But I coordinated with the foundation team. They signed off on it.” There’s a hint of defensiveness in her voice now.

“WellIdidn’t sign off on it.” I set my mug down with more force than necessary. “And I’m the one making the final decisions on this project.”

She studies me for a long moment, and I can almost see her mind working, trying to reconcile the man demanding soup yesterday with the asshole criticizing her work today.

“Of course,” she finally says, her voice cool and professional. “I’ll make the revisions.”

“Good.” I check my watch, desperate to escape the penthouse and her scrutiny. “I’ll be at the office all day. Don’t wait up.”

I grab my briefcase, ignoring the confusion and hurt I glimpse in her eyes. This is necessary. This is for the best. In four days, we’ll both go back to our separate lives, and neither of us will have to deal with the mess of tangled emotions that real relationships inevitably become.

It’s better this way.

At least that’s what I tell myself as I ride the elevator down.

The day passesin a blur of meetings and phone calls, none of which I can fully focus on. My mind keeps circling back to Tatiana’s expression this morning, the way her face closed off at my criticism. The way her eyes...blurred.

It was exactly what I wanted, so why does it bother me so fucking much?

By late afternoon, I’ve buried myself in work, determined to drive all thoughts of my temporary wife from my mind.

Eleanor buzzes in on the intercom, interrupting my concentration.

“Mr. Rossi, I apologize for the intrusion, but Mr. Morgan Weiss is in the lobby demanding to see you. Security has detained him, but he’s causing something of a scene, citing urgent business.”

My blood runs cold at the name. Weiss. The man behind the supplier sabotage. The man who had been asking questions about Tatiana.

“Let him up, Eleanor,” I decide after a moment. “Just him. Have security escort him directly here and wait outside.”

It’s a calculated risk, but I want this confrontation on my turf. Time to end this bullshit once and for all.

Weiss swaggers in moments later, escorted by two of our security team who take up positions outside my closed door. He’s impeccably dressed in an expensive suit, his silver hair perfectly styled, radiating the smug confidence of a man who thinks he has the upper hand.

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